New Year

If I had less alcoholic tendencies, I'd have stood a better chance of enjoying the first day of 2011. Sadly though, in characteristic pathetic and humiliating style, I was unable to withstand the temptation of hitting the bottle too hard at a party last night.

My body is not a happy one.

I suppose it could be seen as a fitting way to end a year where my mind and my body have been in almost constant conflict. A year of internal chaos.

Perhaps the battle can be added to the fact that I'm 1) very hungover and 2) half bloody starved, as possible reasons for why I begin this year feeling too weak to even get up today.

Unspoken words lie like bricks inside me. To actually write them would be exhausting.

Therapy breaks often leave me in a sort of blogging limbo, although this one hasn't been too bad.

I was comforted that the woman didn't seem to want to leave me. She even made sure I had her email, although I think she knew I'd never use it.

Boundaries keep me safe, even if they also keep me in isolation.

I feel as though I should probably have all sorts of resolutions but in all honesty, I feel too tired and, rather embarrassingly, too hopeless.

It's been tough enough resisting the urge to entitle this post: Same Shit, Different Year.

(Does anyone else remember that trend where nearly every cynical, smart ass person they knew had a tshirt which declared 'Same shit, different day'? )

For those Who Know It's Christmas Time

Christmas Eve. 6.44 am.

I've been awake for hours. It's minus six out and I've been lying very still, hands tucked under my pillow to stop the chill.

I've been trying to pretend I'm sleeping. If I pretend perhaps it will really happen.

There's a whole other post in there somewhere, but it's not for today.

Finally I tiptoe out of bed and pull back the curtains.

I catch my breath, startled afresh by the stark beauty of the winter world.

Evergreen branches bow, weighted by heavy snow. The folds of thick coated earth gleam darkly in the midnight hues; The earth is dark blue and black and every shade between.

The neighbour's lights glow orange against the blues and I can't resist opening the window to take a postcard shot.

The cold Christmas air seems to shiver with silent expectation. The heaviness of the snowfall muffles even the sounds of nature itself and I am quieted by beauty.

I light a candle and place it on the windowsill before getting back into bed.

On the radio, the Band Aid hit plays and for the billionth time, I think about those who DO know it's Christmas.

Not in a way which disregards the starving: those afflicted by disease, drought, extreme poverty. That song was for them, and thank goodness for Geldoff and his incredible dedication to the cause.

But I can't help of think of those for whom the knowledge that it is Christmas, brings none of the excitement or seasonal cheer; none of the hope or expectation that glows around us, warming like a father hug; none of the childlike joy that pervades despite having shed the skin of youth.

For some, all that makes us glow, serves as a cutting reminder of what they have lost: loved ones, people suffering with terminal illness, the elderly, the lonely, so many.

I light my Christmas candle for those who have gritted their teeth and closed their eyes in the hope that they can make it through today and tomorrow. For those whose darkness feels even deeper next to the (often superficial) brightness of Christmas.

I pray (in honesty, without much hope) that the true magic of Christmas may be known in hearts that feel desperation and dread at this time of year.

(And yes, it's an almost impossible time for those with eating disorders, so I guess I don't get off Christmas lightly either... but I'm thankful that I'm loved today and I'm thankful that I'm not alone.)

Happy Christmas readers.

My prayer extends to ALL of you.

Apologia

Sometimes I have something I want to say but I can't find the energy to piece the words together. It's been like that for days now, and I'm now expending more energy on NOT writing than I would otherwise do in making the attempt.

So here goes.

My Blog...

When I first entered the blog sphere, it was as a teacher in search of colourful or comical images which I could use to liven up worksheets and teaching resources I was

creating.

A Google Image search for "mountain" may link to a post about somebody's holiday; somebody's love of climbing; advice on mountaineering equipment; an obsession with Everest;

somebody's personal obstacles or victories; the view from somebody's back garden...

I loved it that, just for one moment in time, I could dip into another world, culture, mind, heart. It felt like a privilege to glimpse the world through the eyes of someone I would never know and I loved the bizarre juxtaposition (and I'm sorry to use such a word but I can't think of another) of intimacy and anonymity offered by a blog.

I didn't realise that blogs could be 'followed' by strangers who may become friends in the virtual world. I didn't have a clue that there was a relational aspect to them, and I certainly never dreamed that anyone would sustain interest in anything I wrote.

The notion of blogging became attractive because so much of what I feel and experience feels as though it belongs to a part of me that couldn't be shown to others. A part of me that is too dark, too honest, too pained, too tired... too something.

A diary was too risky. I've kept them before. Dangerous things, diaries. You end up lying half the time... just in case...

I liked the idea that some random person, sitting, standing, lying anywhere on earth, in an office, classroom, lounge, hut, hospital, cafe, bedroom, could hear my voice.

Just for a moment in time.

And that's all this blog was.

A glimpse. A raised eyebrow every now and then. A sound bite.

I like it that I am not 'known' and yet can be heard

I admit to struggling with the fact that not only do some followers feel that they know me, but they have also come to 'care'.

Intimacy is an itchy jumper.

As I type, I am inwardly howling with frustration at sounding so ungrateful.

I have appreciated your words. I have come to care too.

*wince*

The split in me hurts. I am torn by wanting care and wanting to yell at everyone to stay away from me.

Before disappearing into sleep, I should probably conclude by saying that this blog is not about anyone apart from me (yes, it's a very selfish blog).

Anything posted here is an expression of something I am feeling or thinking about. It will have been posted either because of a drive to somehow put it 'outside' of me, or because of an urge to 'create' words for it.

I have no need to be understood or cared about here. I'm not looking for anything other than a little space, on a vast web, where I can be heard without being known.

Intimate and Anonymous.

I will remember, next time I need to exemplify an oxymoron.

Safety in Numbers

No Way Out

Call you up in the middle of the night
Like a firefly without a light
You were there like a blowtorch burning
I was a key that could use a little turning

So tired that I couldn't even sleep
So many secrets I couldn't keep
Promised myself I wouldn't weep
One more promise I couldn't keep

It seems no one can help me now
I'm in too deep there's no way out
This time I have really led myself astray

Runaway train, never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there

Can you help me remember how to smile?
Make it somehow all seem worthwhile
How on earth did I get so jaded?
Life's mystery seems so faded

I can go where no one else can go
I know what no one else knows
Here I am just a-drownin' in the rain
With a ticket for a runaway train

And everything seems cut and dried
Day and night, earth and sky
Somehow I just don't believe it

Runaway train, never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there

Bought a ticket for a runaway train
Like a madman laughing at the rain
A little out of touch, a little insane
It's just easier than dealing with the pain

Runaway train, never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there

Runaway train, never coming back
Runaway train, tearing up the track
Runaway train, burning in my veins

Therapy Today

Here's my session in words I can only just manage.

Arms and legs crossed.

My leg is twitching restlessly (angrily?)

She is "disappointed" to see me in this space after a positive Friday session where, having starved for a week, I was on a high.

I am worried by the word she uses.

Desperation claws at my insides, screaming that she will never understand.

She asks what I will do when the purging is no longer enough.

I tell her I will begin draining the blood from my body.

She tells me that my body will replenish it.

I don't mention that I am picturing my femoral artery.

I try to resist the urge to look at the clock as she talks.

Her words are like little woodpeckers on the side of my head.

Christmas?

She wants me to think about Christmas?

Did I not explain that two days without work leaves me reaching for death? What will stand between us for two WEEKS?

She reminds me that she won't be able to see me on my birthday (which she is not aware of) and I wonder if it is significant that it's the only day she has had to cancel.

That's all I can say for now.

Just To Say...

Mostly at a loss for words, I haven't been here much lately, and although a part of me has longed to express something, I confess that I have sought the freedom of release in mediums less healthy than language.

However, so as not to completely abandon my blog, I am stopping by to throw a few words at it before I attempt sleep tonight.

What follows is a list of whatever pops into my head in the next few minutes. Bear with me. It's late, I'm tired and my head is a bit all over the place after a very mixed weekend.

1. I managed to join old housemates for a night on Saturday. We sang, danced on the sofa, took photos, went to a Moroccan, drank Mojitos (and some horrible purple concoction involving Vodka and Curacao), laughed and reminisced. I felt loved, lonely, terrified, happy and accepted.
2. Therapy has been just as much of a mixed bag. On Friday The Woman asked me if I needed to get to a hospital. She was worried and I knew why. I think i might have been worried too but I don't remember.
3. My binge and purge sessions have become more frequent and more violent.
4. Despite my general "avoid-like-the-plague" maxim regarding hospitals, I recently ended up in A&E because my weight got too low and my heart didn't like it. It gave me a fright... I also ended up in A&E with a colleague and her daughter, who had taken an OD. (Did I mention those things here before?
5. I have been spending a bit of time with a couple who I used to know a lifetime ago. They have been painfully kind to me and I am struggling to accept anything that they offer. I'm very confused and very upset about this but I won't say more than that at the moment.
6. I have been thinking about God and how I can ever really be a Christian.
7. I've discovered that Tesco Finest Turkey breast steaks have less calories than a hell of a lot of other foods and because it's 'meat', it looks as though I am eating a little more normally, thus making other people happy.
8. I will acknowledge here (for the first time) that I do think my drinking is a tiny bit of a problem sometimes.
9. I have organised a lot of stuff which has gone well at work lately. It's been nothing short of pure joy seeing the kids get a kick out of doing some of the activities and actually feeling a sense of belonging and worth.
10. I'm tired and tomorrow is another gym day. Sigh.

Purge

My fingers
reach down
my throat,
push back
and I heave
and surge
and spew again and again
and
again
my fingers
reach down
my throat.

I wish
the pain
would fall out
this way
or
weighted words
unspoken expulsion
from hot heart pounding darkness.


Desperation

is flecked with orange

tomato skin.

One Day...

//

I follow the night
Can't stand the light.
When will I begin
To live again?

One day I'll fly away
Leave all this to yesterday
What more will your love do for me?
When will love be through with me?

Why live life from dream to dream?
And dread the day when dreaming ends.

One day I'll fly away
leave all this to yesterday
Why live life from dream to dream
And dread the day when dreaming ends.

One day I'll fly away
Fly
Fly
Away

Eloi... Eloi...

A few years ago, my sister was rushed from the ED clinic to the nearest hospital. Tubed all over, doctors and nurses desperately attempted to find veins that hadn't collapsed in order to save her from the effects of starvation.

Three and a half stone, barely conscious.

My paper souled parents, wrung out from the tortured grief, sat helpless at her bedside.

I don't recall much about that week, but I can't forget Dad's voice down the phone line, a dreadful effort at bravery from a man so broken.

"She's not expected to make it through the night".

Empty, I put the phone down and went to tell my youngest sister.

For that week, for all of us, life just stopped.

Another thing I can't forget, is that for long periods of time, all I could do was to lie, curled up very small, with Bear pressed in tight to my stomach, listening to Bebo Norman's CD, 'Between the Dreaming and the Coming True'.

I literally hung on to the lyrics of the songs on that album; lyrics that, at less hopeless times, I may have branded 'trite'.

Desperation changes the way we hear things. It changes how we hold things, and, which things we hold.

This week these words have echoed repeatedly through the desperate, aching tunnels of my mind.

"God my God

I cry out

your beloved needs you now".

It's Official

The trembling walk across the flagstones.

I'm fashionably late.

I don't realise at the time, but the man in the thick designer glasses and the understated floral shirt, watches from somewhere within the brick hexagon and says to his (note scribbling) trainee, "Ah. Here comes a skinny person. This must be her".

This man, I've met him before. About sixteen years ago.
I almost want to gag at the memory of a tortured, teenage me; hunched, shaking in the back of dad's car after a one off meeting with this man, my sister's consultant, in the unit where she was incarcerated.

I remember he was kind to me.
Finally: someone who wanted to know how it was for a sibling.
Muscles held taut in my gut, I clamp my jaw; frightened his listening will force a desperate stream of projectile grief.

My mother, dressed in the small laughter of middle class embarrassment, rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue.
Stupid daughter... Doesn't know WHAT she's saying..! As if WE ever lived in denial..! As if WE would ever overlook such a thing! OF COURSE we knew what was happening! OF COURSE we knew ALL ALONG!

Choking on the words forced back down my throat, I shook all the way home.
Shook as dad glanced apologetically in the rearview mirror.
Shook as dad worriedly concurred that PERHAPS it WAS possible that I had known, long before them, the reality of my sister's terrible death wish.

I didn't recognise the man, even as I tried to remember something concrete about the session we had had all those years ago.

I would never have dreamed I would end up in front of him again. And certainly not for this reason.

*****
At the end of today's assessment: the words, "Anorexia Nervosa".

Every syllable ricocheted off the wall of my chest.

How can I know and yet not know?

"You believe me? You take me seriously?"

I am frightened and shocked and ashamed and relieved and disgusted.


The question is not, whether I believe you, he says. The question is whether you can believe yourself and take this illness seriously.

Again. Bullets.

I'm not well.

I knew that.

I need another assessment appointment. We haven't quite covered everything.

We haven't?
God.

Worst thing?

I double booked it for the woman's appointment next Monday.
THAT'S how screwed my mind was.

Now what?

Before I leave, he comments on the dryness of my hands. Says he noticed as we met and shook hands.
He noticed that? What kind of person IS this?
He suggests creams.
I admit I am frightened of absorbing calories through my skin.
"Not possible", he persuades.
I nod, gritting my teeth and flashing untrusting smile.

"Ok", I lie. "I'll start using cream on the splits".
(I have eczema)
Next he'll tell me vitamins can't make you put on weight, but they can. I read up on water soluble and fat soluble vitamins. I know my stuff.

"I'm seeing ..... (my sister's name...)... this afternoon..."
Something in me freezes over
"I won't tell her I've seen you of course... confidentiality and all that..." He tails off.

"I have no idea what she thinks or feels", I offer, lamely because I am at a loss.
He looks at me, studied, careful.
"I think she's been very worried about you". Somehow, his hand is stretched out to me.
"I think she's been very jealous of me", I sink my teeth into his hand and bite down hard. "Jealous that she's in hospital and I'm not"...

He laughs (uneasily?). Blood drips from my mouth...

"...That's the only reason she gives a toss".

I walk away, my throat and eyes stinging and swelling; the metallic taste on my bottom lip.

He hates me. he hates me. He hates me.
He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

I want to wring my own neck as I get into the car.
Maybe her neck too.

It's eleven o'clock.

The sun shines bright and I need to do a number of very bad things to get through the despair of the day.

I do all of them but still, thirteen or so hours later, I am sinking.

Corm Before The Storm

Beautiful Cornwall.

The unexpected warmth of the late October sun; the flat, brilliantly clear light; the depth of blue... This is a place I'd really love to live someday.
My friends have been great. True friends. No terrible questions. Just simple observations and a couple of honest conversations, which in all fairness, is a lot more than I have had with most people in recent months.

I hadn't meant to eat or drink tonight, yet having succumbed to the call of alcohol, I've given in to both. I feel absolute despair right now.
I'm sure I must weigh so much.
I will never go away again without my scales.

Tomorrow I drive home and in some ways, I dread all that is waiting for me.
I wish I never needed anything but oxygen again.

Things I Haven't Said

• I'm on half term, which I have been dreading because I don't operate well outside of my routine, particularly at the moment.
• In desperation, I recently phoned the local eating disorders consultant (who has had dealings with my sister for years). I have an appointment on Wednesday.
• I'm petrified that I won't be taken seriously if I attend on Wednesday, and I'm petrified that I will.
• I ended up in hospital on Thursday after a complete physical and mental meltdown. I'm ok but still very frightnened. 'Anxiety' isn't a satisfactory explanation for the crazy heart stuff I've had going on.
• Old friends I am staying with say I look very ill. I am perplexed by this as I have put on a couple of pounds over the last few days. I feel ridiculously big.
• I want to get better but I am desperate to lose weight. The two things are directly contrary to each other.
• I'm tired and feel a bit hopeless, despite looking forward to tomorrow's lone sojourn to St Ives.

Balancing Act

Free Up Your Mind. Then Let Me Know How You Did It.

It's (not very much) like having the jaw of a steel toothed trap clamped on my bare foot.

It's nightfall in the jungle and I'm faced with the decision to either stay still in the hope that help will come; or to wrench my foot out of the trap (thereby risk bleeding to death) and try to find my own way to help.

Either way I'll probably lose my foot.

Is it more painful to suffer the slings and arrows of my wretched attempts to express some of the incomprehensible stuff I am feeling right now, or is it better to just carry it in silence.

Either way it feels like hell.

I've been lost since the session on Monday.

Faced with her, somewhat glib sounding, recommendation that I "change", I eventually found that I couldn't even be bothered to speak.

What I had been TRYING to do in response to the 'change' suggestion, was to establish HOW exactly, i should go about doing such a thing when, I feel little more than total despair.

"It's not despair", she states. "People in despair don't have the energy to argue"

"Right", I say, simultaneously wondering if I am 'all people' and also thinking (wryly)that she clearly doesn't know that she is talking to someone who can do two and a half hour long cardio workout at the end of a working day, on 4 small tomatoes and some lettuce.

Don't tell me about energy and despair.

So. What do I do, I ask.

How can I change.

"It's not something that you DO"

(and I roll my inner eyes because this is beginning to sound like I'm asking a rather pretentious self styled mytic to tell me what I should do to find a pot of gold)

"It's about freeing up your mind"

Oh GREAT. I AM talking to one of the above. Excuse me? Did you see where my therapist went..?

So.

Freeing up my mind.

That's what I need to do.

Free it from the rigid reign of control.

Who would have thought it were that easy?

Being a teacher, you fast learn the need to be a little creative with your questioning in order to appeal to the understanding of such a range of pupils.

In the hope of getting a more practical, directive type of response I ask,

"If I were you and you were me, what's the first thing you'd do after the session?"

(Please note, in order to "change")

Her helpful response?

"Scream".

Throughout the latter part of the session, that's just what I thought I might do (albeit involuntarily)if I could manage to crawl to my car, but when I did, everything felt a bit unreal and big.

I drove most of the way home, pulled up in a layby, and played a word scramble game on my phone. That's what I do if things get too much.

Chilled to the bone and blank in the pending darkness, I played game after game, absorbed in the obsessive need to beat my point score each time.

I didn't move untiil two hours later.

I'm dreading Friday.

I don't want to go back but I don't want her to think I'm being childish.

Pride probably isn't a great reason to go to therapy.

I've been desperate again today.

Alone in the house again tonight, I ate a small amount and then expelled as much as my gag reflex would allow.

In the last few hours though, I've gone and stuffed it up by eating sweets.

I can't change until I manage to change the desire to be thinner.

HOW do you change a desire THAT strong?

Answers on a postcard...